


One Stupid Word

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Comfort/Angst, Language, M/M, Oral Sex, Republic years, Smut, fair warning: the sex is only Miloe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bass may be with Jeremy, but at certain times of year only Miles will do. Miles's self-loathing perspective on a late-night booty call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Stupid Word

It’s like a legion of ferrets are gnawing at the soft tissue of his right knee. For the hundredth time, Miles thinks about using his general’s privileges to summon an ice pack, but instead he just continues to lie in the dark, blankets weighing him down far less than his guilty conscience. Miles is aware that he sucks at life, but this week he’s been distinctly bad at it. Like when he chewed out Lt. Neville for his own faulty orders. Or when he caught Bass and Jeremy readjusting their clothes, their cheeks flush from excitement, exertion, and he’d gored them with a speech about how _I'm the only one who does any work around here, you fucking passive hedonists._ Oh they got the picture: Miles is a jealous cunt.

Miles has no current claim to Bass other than a lifetime of on-again off-again drama. And…well the other thing. The thing he can’t say, but is always true (at least for him) even when they’re in a phase where they hate each other, or worse yet, are just indifferent. These days they just avoid prolonged engagement, because it’s wearying to be around each other...but damn lonely not to be.

His knee throbs so intensely he feels like crying about it. About the knee, of course.

A gentle knock – _their_ knock – so Miles doesn’t bother reaching for his swords. 

“Miles,” comes the familiar drawl, or maybe Bass didn’t say it at all – he certainly doesn’t need to.

The mattress caves in next to Miles, and the familiar sweat-spice smell of Bass envelopes the bed. Without hesitation or thought, Miles pulls Bass, fully clothed – muddy boots and all – onto his chest and holds him. He knows Bass is here for comfort, and Miles never says the right thing. So he does the only thing he knows.

“I shouldn’t be here-” Bass's voice wavers, muffled against Miles's chest.

Miles grunts at a fresh wave of jealousy. The Jeremy fling again.

And somehow Bass is intent on explaining what Miles already knows, as if to twist the knife of how far apart he and Miles have grown. “But it’s the anniversary-”

“I know,” Miles interrupts, almost irritably.

“Of their deaths,” Bass finishes anyway. Hell, maybe it's just a coping ritual.

“I _know_. It’s okay.” Why can't Miles just say what he means? _I'll always be here, Bass._ Miles's bed is forever open to the man he’s buried himself in for so long and so completely. He extracted the cold metal from Bass’s hand that night at the cemetery. _You’ve got me._ Bass _has_ him.

Miles should do something comforting – stroke Bass’s hair, kiss the golden curls. He just squeezes tighter, immobilized by the inertia of their endless history. He can hear Bass’ choked breathing, so maybe he’s weeping or maybe it’s just hard to take in air when you're thinking about the expiration of your entire family in a hemorrage of fate.

“Bass…just…stay here tonight.”

“Miles, we’re not together anymore.” 

“This feels together.” Pathetic. Wanting it doesn’t make it true. But Bass has rolled away to undress and slides under the covers clad only in boxer shorts.

Now that there are just two flimsy pieces of fabric separating them from skin to skin, Miles can’t decide whether he’s allowed to hold Bass again. Staring at each other in the darkness on their shared pillow, Miles wills Bass to initiate something. But Bass's words only sting:

“We’re poison. We both know that. And…I shouldn’t ask, but he doesn’t understand this…” _He. Jeremy._ Miles bristles with sickening ire. “You know what I need right now. But you can say no.”

Miles swallows so hard he’s sure Bass has heard it shatter the darkness. Then a growl like it's coming from someone else: “Yes.” 

“Thanks.” Bass’ warm hand encircles Miles’s stubbled face and draws him in to meet his lips.

At first Miles just relishes the soft skin there, but in a moment, he is tongue-fucking Bass hard. Waves of abandonment and possession wash over him, as his hands conquer the familiar muscles of his old lover, inch by inch. He’s practically ripped off both of their boxers and is grinding their dicks together, sticky from sweat. The pain from that tender flesh makes it real.

Bass pushes Miles away with a firm hand. “Jesus, man. Come on. Pain’s your thing. At least give it some spit.”

Miles’s chest seizes. This is what Bass doesn’t like about Miles. He’s fucked up in relationships – always makes it hurt. In contrition and confusion, Miles freezes. 

Bass shakes his head against Miles's neck. “You’re a fucking caveman,” he mumbles, licking his hand and sliding it against Miles’s cock. 

Instinctively, Miles has his hand on top of Bass’s and forces him to hand-fuck him brutally, faster. When he feels himself getting close he pushes Bass flat on the bed to stop him and retreats under the covers to suck him off in a kind of frenzy.

It’s hot as hell under here, and Miles is sweating like a farm animal. He greedily snatches Bass’ dick and starts pumping it with his lips, popping it out now and then to yank vigorously. Bass moans, and it suddenly dawns on Miles: _Show him you fucking care, you idiot. He's here not because he wants you; he wants to forget._

It hurts to admit, but it forces Miles to slow down, kiss the oozing head. He smears the precum around with his thumb and then emerges, dripping with sweat from the blankets.

“You can fuck me if you want. I…I don’t know what you want,” Miles blunders.

Bass exhales in a little laugh and slides his fingers across Miles’s cheek, into Miles's mouth to wet them, and then down toward Miles’s bum. He pushes against the pucker there, and Miles’s heart skips.

“You’re really tight. It’d be easier the other way.”

“Don’t worry about it. If it's what you want…it’s what I want.” The admission feels close to the word Miles can’t say.

“All right. Flip over.”

Miles lies on his stomach, fist smashed against his own dick, legs spread wide. Bass tries to open Miles's hole with a finger, then two, working in spit as he goes.

“Okay, Bass. Just do it,” Miles orders impatiently. He doesn’t like the build up to this – the vulnerability.

“Calm down. I just don’t want to tear you, you self-flagellating fuck.” The words may sound unkind, but Miles knows Bass doesn’t mean it that way.

Miles takes a deep breath, grinds his own dick hard, and lets Bass push in his dick millimeter by millimeter. It burns like hell, even though Bass has liberally smeared the invading cock with saliva. _Oh fuck._ Miles doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it, especially because the pressure on his sore knee is killing him, but then Bass collapses forward to hold him, and it's suddenly worth it.

Bass whispers in his ear, “I hate how right this feels.”

Miles tries to crane his neck enough to taste Bass’ lips. Miles can’t really manipulate his own dick - which has gone half limp in protest for being crushed under their weight- but Bass is slamming against his prostrate, which makes him feel somehow close to the edge anyway. He can’t possibly finish this way, but Bass does, driving hard into him, filling his tight, throbbing passage with seed.

When Bass evacuates him, Miles is instantly bereft, gaping, exposed. But Bass turns him over and begins palming Miles’s scalding erection. Miles isn’t sure he wants to be touched anymore, his cock is so battered, and it's like his aching knee is interrupting the signals his brain is sending to just come already. But Bass licks his hand and patiently slides it up and down Miles’s shaft. Despite the lack of forceful pressure, against all odds, Miles is coming. Once Bass feels the transition, he grips Miles’s cock tighter and wrings him out. As Miles senses Bass is about to let go, he stays him, and _fuck_ , begs him, "Please."

Bass resettles his hand on the softening dick and chuckles, “Shit, Miles. Who needed this more?”

The guilt returns. Bass is right – this was supposed to be about him. Miles pulls Bass into his arms and whispers, “Sorry.”

Burying his face in Miles’ neck so that Miles almost can’t hear the response, Bass mumbles, “Sorry’s all we are these days. How about you try something else for a change?"

Miles spends the better part of an hour wondering if this means what he thinks - that if he could just say it, they'd do this forever. Jeremy would vanish; the guilt would vanish. You know, one stupid word would solve all his problems.


End file.
